


imperfect various things

by refuted



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refuted/pseuds/refuted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Root and Shaw stop each other from bleeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	imperfect various things

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](http://lapieldelmal.tumblr.com/post/114713991709/couples-that-clean-blood-off-of-each-other-are%22).

**_/ one_ **

 

This is a routine.

There are days of silence, then weeks, and finally a phone call.

It starts with thinly veiled come-ons and a halfhearted brush off, ends with an eventual invitation to one of Her missions and they both pretend it isn’t all Root’s idea. Shaw never seems like she wants to tag along, but she never seems like she doesn’t and that’s always been enough.

 

“You’re bleeding.”

Right through the thin cotton of her button-up, a dark stream from her shoulder to her waist and down, coloring the carpet of the third hotel they’ve checked into in as many days, warm where the bullet passed and cold, so very cold everywhere else.

She's always hated Alaska; a perpetual bite in the air that makes it hard to breathe and fills her throat with pins when she tries.

Shaw’s looking at her in a way she’s not quite familiar with. Not annoyed exactly, not tender, but the makings of something in between – which could all just be in her head. Fatigue and sleep deprivation and a bit of blood loss teaming to fill absences with daydreams and softness where there isn’t.

As close as Shaw can get to resembling softness.

Shaw makes it halfway to the bathroom before Root figures that she’s meant to follow and she’s much more accustomed to the frown she receives when she comes in.

“Take it off,” Shaw instructs.

 

Shaw and Sameen are different people, the likes of whom Root can generally recognize in the way she responds to Sweetie.

It’s Shaw for the longest time, before the zipties and before the iron; there is a file marked Indigo and she reads it quickly. Root inhales what she can and even then it’s clear that Shaw is something else entirely.

She bleeds into her dreams once, and then twice, slips into her mind when she’s alone and vulnerable to wandering thoughts. Root never tries to think of her until she does, and it doesn’t make sense until it does.

Sameen Shaw is a ghost, like her.

Slips in and out without a trace, with tremors in her wake and Root has always appreciated that kind of elusiveness – she isn't lying at all when she tells her she’s a fan. It doesn’t stop her from pressing the iron closer and closer, but later she remembers wondering if she'd have felt bad about it had they not been interrupted.

Probably not.

Well.

Maybe a little.  

It turns into Sameen the first time she doesn’t look like she wants to shoot her, sometime after she finds herself locked in a room with a mountain of books and an aching silence in her ear. Root works her way around from there.

She’ll have won something when she can coax Sam out, but two decades of distance from the name and she still can’t say it without twinges of  _Groves_  itching to come back up.

She thinks of it for the first time on a red eye to Asia. Remembers it clear and crisp in her mind, a row all to herself and a calculated beat between briefings on her missions.

_She came back for you._

_(She came back for you. She came back for you.)_ Root repeats it in her mind, over and over like a lullaby and it is the first time in a long while that she has missed someone.  

 

When she’s looking at her like this, it’s unchartered territory, entirely outside a realm of exasperation and outright aggression and she has no footing here.

Shaw, then. Root calls her Shaw when she tries to thank her for the help and she only blinks back in return.

A wrong guess.

“You always this careless?”

“Only around you.”

(This one’s a half-lie.)

 

Shaw kisses her first, always. Always maintains that Root starts it and Root never refutes her.

Her hand is warm when it presses against the side of her waist. She’s shirtless and shivering, cold and bare and exposed in front of Shaw, but the touch scorches and flares where her fingers meet skin. It doesn’t leave a mark, but Root feels it seared into her; red smears across her waist when Shaw’s grip tightens and somehow it makes sense that there’s always blood involved when they’re together.

Shaw pushes up into her space, but the angle is a little off. It’s good, though, flutters in her stomach and she thinks she’ll call her Sameen.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  ** _/ two_**

 

It’s easy.

As easy as a step too close and a wandering gaze. Sweet nothings that build and burn and Shaw comes to recognize the scent of her in a crowded room, can trace a path across her scars in her mind, can pinpoint the ones she’s given her and she wonders how quickly Root forgave her for it.

Root plays along, always. Never denies starting it, because sometimes she does.

Sometimes it starts before, when she walks too close alongside her, with a drag to her words and a challenge to everything she says.

It’s easy because she doesn’t particularly like Root and she doesn’t know how long that might last.

The bar is gauche and sleazy, nestled between two strip clubs and Shaw can’t tell if it’s the lack of recognizable beer or the absence of a health code sign that sets her so on edge.

Really, it’s their number striding toward her with a hungry grin, doused in patchouli and cigarette smoke and she wants him to be a perpetrator, she really does.

What she really, really wants is to shoot him, but Finch is pleading in her ear, “This is our chance, Sameen. Please exercise restraint.”

It's the fuck off he takes as a fuck me that sends him to the bar for what she hopes could at the very least sustain a flame, sends her fingers to the holster at her thigh, tap, tap, tapping at warm metal, pressing against the butt of her gun.

“I’m going to shoot him.”

“Ms. Shaw-

“Then I’m going to shoot  _you._ ”

Finch stops typing and she might hear Bear whine. It makes her a little bitter that she always needs the threat of violence to get him to pay attention.

The number is a big guy, makes for an easy target at this vantage point. She's got a clean shot

\- and there's a hand that brushes across the back of her shoulder, coming to rest along the crook of her neck. It’s a soft touch, entirely too self-assured to be anyone but her.

Root comes around, slipping in beside her. She drapes her arm across the back of the booth, fingers just grazing at her shoulder; slides her other hand on top of Shaw’s knee and Shaw lets her.

She smells light, of lilac and vaguely of gunpowder. Like and unlike her, a mismatch that fits right in with the color of her hair. Auburn and long, curling just above her breast, Shaw almost asks who she is today.

They’re sat entirely too close for comfort and Shaw can see a gleam behind the thick black frames of her glasses. She considers if she wants to shove her, to shoot her, or maybe just play along because the number comes back with margaritas and the look on his face is so precious.

She watches him watch Root and Shaw sees it from the corner of her eye, smug turn of mouth as Root makes a trail from her lips to her eyes and Shaw turns to face her, doesn’t smile back but doesn’t scowl either.

She's found a script here, and they’re following it to the letter for an audience of one.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Finch’s chair squeaks. “Ms. Groves?”

Maybe two.

“Boss wouldn’t stop talking. I just can’t ever get away from her.”

“You say that every time.”

Root’s hand glides up her leg, hiking her dress back as her palm sidles warm and familiar along her inner thigh. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Idly, Shaw wonders how much Finch can see, wonders how much she cares either way because the feeling isn’t entirely unpleasant.

She’s also lost the urge to shoot the number, almost huffs at the irony. The woman calms her down.

Root looks away from her, at him and leans forward to take the drinks off his hands. “Thanks. Keep these coming.”

“I’m not the waiter.”

“Then what are you standing there for?”

 

He isn’t a perpetrator, but he is on a Vigilance hit list and if there’s one thing Shaw enjoys more than shooting guys like him it’s shooting guys like Peter Collier. Notches her pulse up a few gears, gets welcome adrenaline humming through her veins and it’s almost (almost) better than sex.

“You knew.” Shaw ducks into the booth for cover, feigns a bit of irritation in case Root thinks she may want to make a habit out of the performance. “You _fucking_ knew.”

The returning smile is as exasperating as it is welcome, reaches her eyes and her lips catch between her teeth for a moment before she says, “Do you think Harold would mind if you clocked out early?”

“I might focus on the armed operatives before thinking of taking Ms. Shaw out of the field.”

Root hums. “Guess I’m not the only one.”

“What?”

The spray of bullets tear into the space between them and Shaw rolls out, takes cover behind an overturned table and returns fire. Music to her ears when they catch and the patriots hit the floor.

“Could use a little help here, Root.”

Her dress is ripped, exposing her upper thigh to humid air and to Root. She thinks she might be bleeding a little and Root tells her as much with an undercurrent of worry in the confirmation. She’d be more offended, but she got her firefight and she can probably coax Root into buying her dinner on the way home.

“Eyes forward.” Root meets a halfhearted glare. “If you’re nice I’ll let you patch me up later.”

Harold clears his throat.

 

“The glasses are a nice touch.”

“You think so?”

 

“I can keep them on if you want.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_/ three_ **

 

To her credit, she knocks.

Root waits a supposedly appropriate time, slowly ruffling through her bag for her kit. When the case is open and the door still closed, she considers Shaw’s silence invitation enough. 

There’s a half-joke about a key that never makes it out when she spots the blood.

It isn’t a lot. Not enough to warrant too much worry, but the sight trickles up the back of her neck, leaves her mouth dry as she assesses what she can from the living room.

Which, it turns out, isn’t much.

Root calls out. “How bad?”

Nothing.

Then, “I’ll live.” Something clatters into the bathroom sink, what Root finds to be the remnants of an unnervingly large bullet when she walks in.

Shaw acknowledges her via hand-mirror. “Hold this.”

Root watches stiffly as Shaw tries to close the wound along her hip. Her ear tingles a little at the show and she suppresses the urge to wince when Shaw pierces through.

They go like this for a short while before Shaw stops, sighs and mutters something she doesn’t understand.

“Your hands are shaking.”

She grunts. “Think you can do better?”

Root slips past her to the sink, washes her hands as Shaw blinks slowly – it upsets her a little that Shaw looks so surprised.

“Tell me what to do,” she says, and a brow hovers up. (Shaw, maybe.)

“Have you done this before?”

“No.”

Shaw gestures to the bourbon on the floor. “Try not to leave a scar.”

The instructions are clear and Root has always been a good listener, has always had excellent control over her body (the alcohol helps) but it scares her a little. Terrifies her, a little, that Shaw manages to get herself shot so often.

“Where’s John?”

Shaw doesn’t respond, eyes closed and fluttering.

“Sameen.”

“I’m going to pass out. You done?” At Root’s yes, she adds. “Get me to the bed at least.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Yeah, maybe later.”

 

+

 

It turns out that Shaw doesn’t exactly hate it when Root’s arm snakes around her waist. Careful and cautious and she doesn’t protest as Root shuffles closer, pressing into her like she's testing for a response.

She falls asleep again with the palm of Root's hand along the curve of her hip, just above the wound, drifting off to the rhythm of a steady heartbeat against her back.

Shaw wakes to an empty apartment. To a spotless bathroom and a bottle of painkillers on her bedside table and maybe she feels a little bad about the lack of a proper farewell.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_**/ four** _

 

A hotel room at the edge of the city.

As quiet and unassuming as the last, naked walls and fifteen stories up but within the delivery range of a nice Thai place.

The man looks slightly less angry for the trek when he sees the state of her, nodding sheepishly as she apologizes for the trouble. He offers to take it to the table for her, but Root shakes her head and sends him back into the rain with an extra twenty in his palm.

She hobbles over to the desk slash dining table and tears the bag open, noticing an extra box of food just as the doorknob starts to rattle.

 _A friend_ , she hears, though her fingers have already wrapped around the butt of her DoubleTap. She straightens to greet the visitor and Shaw trudges in, soaked to the bone. Doesn’t even acknowledge her as she sheds her coat, grabs a hanger from the closet and disappears into the bathroom.

Bites of pad thai later, she emerges, stripped down to a tank and boyshorts, toweling her hair and just as suddenly it makes sense.

“Oh.”

Shaw pauses. “What?”

“I’ve never liked red curry.”

Root gestures to an unopened container, toward which she walks immediately. Shaw helps herself to a forkful of chicken and Root eyes her laptop.

Not even static in her ear.

“Too spicy.” Root leans forward, handing her a napkin. “Leaves my tongue numb.”

“I know a better place. If you’re ever in town for more than two hours at a time.”

(Sameen?)

“I’d like that.”

Shaw sets the box down and walks forward, gesturing for Root to stand.

She lifts her blouse and even after Root closes her eyes she can picture the scowl settling, has memorized the whole of her expressions and this is one she’s seen all too often.

“Can’t take you out anywhere if you’re dead though.”

She marvels, just a little, in the offer to take her anywhere. Gazes lazily at Shaw as she is led to the bathroom and smiles softly against the frown that’s yet to loosen the lines at her jaw. Root’s eyes flutter closed, she might drown in Shaw’s touch, precise and gentle and firm, and she’s suddenly sleepy.

Shaw digs through Root’s supply, working to bandage an incision that isn’t that deep, really but she won’t make a fuss about it either way and the silence that falls is easy.

It’s the first look she gets of herself in the mirror, seems worse than it is. A little purple around her temple, heavy under her eyes, but she can breathe just fine and Root explains as much.

“I like that you worry about me.”

“Got a call.”

Root hums. “And you made it halfway across the city in a storm.”

“I worry about –

“The mission. Fate of the free world. Whether Finch feeds Bear enough.” Shaw tilts her head at that, like Root’s on to something; the hell does the dog have over her.

“You getting killed.” Shaw adds, a beat later, “Can’t imagine any of us having to talk to your friend.”

The little things.

(Sam, then.)

“Stay for breakfast?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_**/ five** _

 

“I’m okay,” Root says. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

They’re on the floor and she’s bleeding from her head somewhere, seeping a sticky black into her hair, clumping strands together and staining treacherous threats along Shaw’s fingers when she tries to search for a source.

The real problem is the bullet swimming around her gut, nestled somewhere it shouldn’t be and taking the color from Root’s cheeks, bleeding it onto concrete, pushing through the fabric of Shaw’s jeans. Warm, slippery reminders that Root has never been invincible.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Stop talking.”

Root makes a noise that might be a yelp, might be a laugh, sounds so desperate and maybe it has always been something people lapse to when they’ve bled too much.

She looks so cold and it all reminds her of Cole. Shivering, felt light in her arms, he might have laughed a little, too.

Bad time to think about it.

The memory leaves her mouth dry, leaves a knot in her throat that she can’t swallow down.

Root's looking at her like she might be trying to say goodbye, mouth curved and trembling with the weight of an impending confession and Shaw thinks she’ll maim someone if she doesn’t hear John soon.

“Finch.”

“Sixty seconds Ms. Shaw,” Harold says in her ear, a distant sound; he has never felt so far away. “Please, hang on.”

“I should be talking though, right?” Root coughs. A soft, pathetic noise that pulls Shaw’s attention away from the wound, back to her, just for a moment. “Pretty sure you're not supposed to let me pass out.”

“Then don’t pass out.”

 _There_.

The wound isn't deep, a concussion maybe but it’s normal and it won’t kill her first.

Which makes problem one that much more of a problem.

“Reminds me of Anchorage.”

“Shut up.”

 

+

 

Shaw's boots twitch against her leg every few minutes.

Softly at first, then sharp and sudden and it wakes her with a start. She considers waking her too, but takes notice of the dried blood on her cheek, on her tank, the grime in her hair and it occurs to her that maybe she's never left.

Feet up and crossed at the ankles, hand dangling over the arm of her chair and fingers just barely resting along Bear’s fur as he reclines on his paws, Shaw shudders in her sleep.

(Sam, Sam, Sam.)

Bear gets to her first, whining until she reaches out to stroke under his ear. She quiets him, but Shaw's leaning forward moments later, breathing in deeply before she stands and stretches a little, exposes a strip of skin between her tank and her pants and there's blood along her waist, too.   

Shaw doesn't say anything as she steps closer to hand her a glass of water and Root remains silent as Shaw checks her wounds, touch soft as ever. Ghosting across her skin like she might break, makes her wonder if Shaw really thinks so.

Shaw sits back down and watches her for a while.

Finally: “I'm not sleeping with anyone else.”

Root blinks.

“When would you ever find the time?”

Shaw tilts her head, doesn't roll her eyes but she can see she wants to. “Root.”

She smiles. Hurts a little, and maybe there's something more to coax out of her, but she gets it.

For now, they’re good.

Better than good.

 

**Author's Note:**

> that bar scene was a giant-ass homage to this [gem](http://marymorstan.co.uk/post/120502069511/stella-gibson-is-on-her-way-to-steal-ur-girl-and).


End file.
